


Counter measures

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Fallen Angel [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Past Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:52:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6324493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's plans to take on Moriarty have hit a barrier. Mycroft is depriving him of case work, in the certain belief this will drive his brother into other forms of addictive behaviour- the sort that will undermine MI6's belief that the Consulting Detective is the one to defeat the Consulting Criminal. John is being kept in the dark by both Holmes brothers, but is determined to stop Sherlock from falling back into the self-destructive behaviours of the past. This story sets the scene for what happens next on Dartmoor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been three weeks since a case of any sort. Three weeks of John watching Sherlock slowly unravel. Three weeks since Lestrade had explained, apologetically, that Sherlock was 'off limits' for a while, due to Mycroft's interference. "Sorry. No cases, not even cold ones." Sherlock and John had been called into his office. The doctor sat in the chair opposite the Detective Inspector, while Sherlock prowled.

"Since when has my brother been able to interfere at will in the Metropolitan Police case work?" He drew himself up to his full height and stared at Greg, in an imperious, almost royal manner.

Greg had just stared back at him. "Since forever, Sherlock. You are only working on cases at the Met because he agreed to it. Have you forgotten that little fact?"

"That was  _ages_  ago. This is now. Someone should be able to stop him sticking that beak of his into someone else's business."

"Yeah, well until someone arrives on the scene with more clout behind closed doors than God, I don't stand a chance against your brother. No cases."

That earned him a glare. "Are you a mouse or a man, Lestrade? You can just slip me the details. No one will know. I don't even have to attend the crime scenes if you could get a good police photographer instead of your usual idiot." Sherlock made this sound like a huge concession on his part.

Greg just laughed, incredulously. "Since when has your brother  _not_  known something he wants to know? He's watching my back like a hawk, ready to pounce on me for any sign that I am slipping something to you on the sly. Christ, he's probably got Donovan on his payroll to pass him any evidence that you're involved. What the hell did you two fight about anyway? Why not just patch it up? You've always been willing to compromise before it the case work was at risk."

Sherlock glared. "Because, this time it's a matter of principle. He's trying to freeze me out, in order to prove a point. I won't let him. There is too much at stake."

"Such as?" This was the first time John had said a word.

"None of your business." This was snapped as if it had been repeated on numerous occasions.

Greg looked from John to Sherlock and back again, a laugh halfway to escaping. "What, you out of sorts with John, too? Mycroft's really got you going if he can divide and rule. Don't rise to it, Sherlock. If you want to beat him at whatever game the two of you are playing, then you'll just have to tough it out. Don't let the bastard win."

oOo

"Don't."

Sherlock was pacing. John was trying to read the morning paper. After two weeks of watching Sherlock get increasingly tetchy, he had reduced his hours this week a little, so he was on mornings or afternoons only. He hadn't told Sherlock, but his friend was too busy fretting to really notice much of what was going on in other people's lives.

"He's just trying to wind you up. Don't rise to it." John's words of patience had absolutely no effect. All morning Sherlock had twitched, fidgeted, paced, picked at his violin. Yesterday had been the same, but he'd also started several experiments only to abandon them. He wasn't in his comatose, 'I can't be bothered to care' mode. This was the 'Triple A', as John had come to know it- anxious, agitated and annoyed. Sooner or later, the chemical consequences of inaction just ate a hole in his friend's sense of being, an acid of frustration that fizzed and burnt until it had to find an outlet. Any minute now, John knew that there would be some sort of explosion- and not from an experiment. This far gone, Sherlock wouldn't trust himself to start one , because he'd either abandon it half finished, or it would end in a bang of some sort. John had taken to examining the kitchen cupboards where Sherlock kept his equipment and chemicals to see what needed confiscating.

He kept worrying about what Greg had said- the DI was almost resigned to the idea that inaction would lead Sherlock back to drug use. He had the advantage of knowing Sherlock longer than John had. In the time that the doctor had been living with Sherlock, he'd only slipped twice, to his knowledge- when he had gone missing, living rough on the streets of London for five days trying to avoid Moriarty*, and once with a bottle of codeine leftover from a bout of pneumonia**.

 _That I know about…_  Of course, he didn't have eyes on Sherlock all the time. Not that Mycroft did, either. Even with the best will in the world- which Sherlock did not have in the slightest measure- there were going to be times when the man was out of sight and able to do whatever he wanted. He needed to get Sherlock to acknowledge the danger of trying to deal with the problem on his own.

"Sherlock. Please sit down. I need to talk with you."

That earned him a frown on the face of the pacing detective, who did not bother to look at John. "I'm in the same room. I'm not deaf. Sitting down has nothing to do with talking." Sherlock carried on. His current pathway was around the kitchen table, to the window next to his music stand, between the coffee table and the sofa, then down the landing and in through the door into the kitchen.

John was reminded of the stereotypic behaviour of a caged feline in a zoo, endlessly pacing up and down the length of its enclosure. "You're wearing a path."

"Don't be absurd. Hardwood floors are not affected by being walked upon." This was muttered as Sherlock rounded the kitchen table and set off on another circuit.

"It's distracting."

"That's your problem, not mine. Go away if it annoys you."

"It's not annoying; it's _worrying_."

"That makes no sense. Walking is not something to be worried about."

John sighed. "It's  _why_  you are walking that is worrying."

Sherlock slowed his forward momentum for just long enough to look in John's direction. He wouldn't meet the doctor's eye directly, but was willing to use his peripheral vision to see if he could detect what was worrying John.

Then he said quietly, "You know why I am walking. It's a way of dealing with anxiety and agitation, both of which are the logical outcome of being…. _idle_  for so long."

"Then let's figure something out that will keep you occupied."

"Without The Work, there is nothing else."

"You are  _more_  than the work, Sherlock."

"No, I'm not. The other things I do are just a different form of idleness, things to do when I am not working. Distraction therapy, my mother used it to try to help me deal with…." here Sherlock seemed to run out of words for a moment, before resuming "…what I have to deal with when I am not working."

John smiled. "That's a rather circular argument, Sherlock. What do you have to deal with when you're not working?"

This seemed to annoy Sherlock. He made a vague gesture towards his head. " _This_ \- uncontrollable urge to do  _something_ , anything, to break the cycle going around and around in my head. I'm stuck, like, like…" he was struggling to find words. "…like a scratched CD that jumps about and never moves forward, forever stuck repeating the same sounds over and over again. Lalalalallalalalla…endlessly."

John decided at least his friend was talking, and that he might be encouraged to do more. "What's needed to break the logjam?"

That question made Sherlock stop in his tracks. His shoulders seemed to tighten a bit. "I need something that stimulates adrenaline release and inhibits dopamine re-absorption. If I'm lucky, a case."

"And if you're not?"

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. For a moment, John hoped that he might admit something revealing, giving the doctor an opening to discuss what Lestrade had foreshadowed. Once it was out in the open, John could talk about other, legal methods of dealing with what was going on.

The taller man fisted his hair in both hands and groaned. "If you are about to suggest some sort of pharmacological solution like an anti- anxiety drug, then you can stop right there. Bensodiazepines have a paradoxical effect on me, leading to even greater anxiety. And I won't touch an anti-depressant. SSRIs don't work on me."

John knew this already. Over the two years, he'd seen enough of Sherlock's medical records to know that something like diazepam was countraindicated. "What about buspirone hydrochloride? It's not an anti-depressant and it's not a benso either."

Sherlock released his hands from his hair, and shook his head. "Makes me sleepy, gives me headaches, and heightens my sensitivity to noise. My hearing is sensitive enough to nearly drive me mad normally; with Buspar it becomes impossible." He resumed pacing.

John decided he had to get Sherlock to face it. "So, it's cocaine, is it?"

Sherlock had come around the kitchen table and into the living room. As he paced by John's chair, he muttered a reply, "most of the time, yes. Sometimes, if I just want to shut the whole thing down, then diamorphine."

John was shocked.  _Heroin?_ That was a surprise. Both Lestrade's comments and Sherlock's own medical records showed the abuse of cocaine, but had not divulged any other.

Sherlock was on the return lap, back from the window, past the coffee table. He muttered, "But usually I prefer benzoylmethylecgonine… C17H21NO4. Just another combination of chemicals, John, like the prescription drugs you just mentioned. The only difference is that those you mentioned are licensed for use, and the other isn't. It's a pointless, useless distinction that I have never understood or accepted. All I care about is what works. Cocaine stops the jamming, and allows me to focus." As he turned into the kitchen, the younger man continued. "I know what you are trying to do, and it is really none of your business. The more you try to push me into 'talking about it'…" here he made finger marks in the air, "…the more you make it difficult for me to be here in the flat. If I do leave, that will bring me closer to succumbing to the lure of a chemical solution which you have just deemed to be unacceptable."

"Not just me, Sherlock."

"Oh, who cares?! I don't care what other people think of me. Not my brother, not Lestrade, not even you. When I am this far gone, I just need to break out or  _I WILL EXPLODE"._ The last phrase was said through gritted teeth, as if the effort to stop shouting was almost overwhelming.


	2. Chapter 2

"Why is your brother doing this to you?"

"Because he is a bastard. And that alone is the only thing that has kept me from rushing out and finding the first dealer I can. Yes, John, I am an addict. I know that. I am addicted to case work. He is depriving me of it, pushing me into withdrawal. He wants me to break, so he can prove a point. He always underestimates me. I just have to find a way to get past this."

John was both worried and bemused.  _He's willing to admit addiction, but not to the drug, just to The Work._  Maybe there was more than a grain of truth in it.

"So, you want to beat your brother, in whatever game it is you won't tell me about. "

"It's not a game, but, yes, I do want to stop him from stopping me and that means I can't use drugs. That doesn't make the lack of case work any easier. He knows my weakness, and is willing to exploit it mercilessly. He's a bastard."

"Why not think of it as a case?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" He sounded cross. Unresolved anxiety and agitation could lead to aggression, and the doctor was worried about it.

"Well, if a client came in here sat in the usual chair and told us this story, how would you solve it?"

Sherlock stopped pacing. Twin furrows in between his eyebrows deepened. "A case? What sort of case?"

John tilted his head and looked at his flatmate. "A man storms up the stairs, starts pacing about in front of us, saying that his brother is trying to stop him from doing something important. But the client won't tell you what that important thing is. Still, you are able to deduce what it is, even though you won't tell me. The brother is trying to push the client into a drug addiction relapse as a way of thwarting the client's plans, which the brother obviously doesn't approve of. So…what would you say to such a client?"

Sherlock gave John a surprised look. "You want me to deduce the solution to give the client, when I am the client? That's…unusual."

"Yeah, well, maybe it's just off-the-wall enough to appeal to you." John gestured to the leather and chrome chair. "Sit down. Your client has just arrived." He pulled a chair away from the table and sat it in the centre of the room, facing the fireplace. He sat back down in his tweed covered chair, as Sherlock settled into his own leather and chrome seat, still with a slightly puzzled look on his face, as he looked suspiciously at the empty chair in the middle of the room.

"Okay…" Having gotten this far, John wasn't sure how to start at first. Then he realised it should be like any other case. "Right, you usually demand that they tell you their story, but 'don't be boring', so get on with it."

Tilting his head in puzzlement, Sherlock considered for a moment, and then was off. "I want to do something, and my brother is determined to stop me. Other people, who have to remain nameless, think it is a very good idea, and are willing to back my approach to ca… no, to solving a crime before it happens, even if this means putting my brother's nose out of joint. He responds like a bully, stopping me from doing police work, and interfering with the case requests that get posted to your website."

John interrupted. "How do you know that? I haven't seen any evidence of that!"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Don't break the role-play, John. That's what this is about, isn't it? Any idiot can see that only the most idiotic of case requests have been posted recently, asking for our help. I know your blog attracts a large percentage of boring and obvious cases, but, statistically speaking, by now at least several interesting ones should have appeared. I don't have to see my brother's finger prints to know that they are there."

"How could he do that?"

Sherlock snorted. "Website hacking for dummies… it's simple enough to set up a pseudo-comments inbox, hack the ISP and re-direct incoming messages, which is how you get your case requests from the public. He then judiciously deletes those he thinks are remotely interesting, just leaving the dross to be forwarded to the real inbox."

The consulting detective looked at the empty chair, as if trying to imagine a real client sitting there. "So, Mister Client, your brother is trying to extort behaviour from you by interfering with your right to practice your profession. That's illegal restraint of trade- have you thought about talking to a lawyer?"

John giggled. "Somehow I don't think any lawyer in the country would be willing to take a case up against Mycroft."

"Precisely. So, what alternatives are there?"

John looked at the chair. "Can the brother actually stop you from doing …whatever it is you or, rather the client has planned?"

"Nope". Sherlock gave a wolfish grin. "The client has out-manoeuvred Mycroft, made it impossible for him to take overt action; if he does, he's going to be in a  _lot_  of trouble. More important, he's being kept out of the loop; doesn't have access to the full scheme of things, in fact, not even the crumbs off the table. So, he can't even interfere covertly. That's  _actually_ what's annoying him. He thinks he's the British Government, who should know everything. His palace-sized ego is being dented because he's found that he can't rule as the despotic tyrant that he wants to be."

 _No wonder Mycroft is pissed off._  John wanted to know more, to find out why Mycroft wanted to stop Sherlock, and why Sherlock was so determined. The idea of Sherlock keeping secrets from him as well as Mycroft worried the doctor.

"So why not tell me? That's not the same as telling Mycroft."

"Yes, it is." Sherlock smirked. "You, John, are the most honest person I know. Your face tells me almost everything I need to know about what you are thinking. Do you think that Mycroft standing here in this room wouldn't be able to extract every bit of information he needs from you? Be realistic. If I want to keep him in the dark- and I have to for his own protection- then that means keeping you in the dark, for exactly the same reason."

John turned to look back at the empty chair and pursed his lips. "So, Mister Client, how long is this going to go on for? I mean, if you just keep going with …whatever it is you have planned, won't it just happen? Then the client's brother can't interfere anymore; it's a fait accompli."

Sherlock shook his head. "It could take months. The brother is waging a war of attrition. He's assuming that the client will crack before the plans come to fruition. He thinks the client is impulsive and unable to engage in strategic planning. And he thinks he can use the client's weaknesses to undermine his credibility with the other parties involved."

" _Parties_? Just how many people are involved?"

"Lots, but no one apart from the client knows about everything. That's designed to protect everyone else. What people don't know won't hurt them."

John was a bit confused. But he was learning something about what lay at the basis of the Holmes' brothers' dispute. Mycroft would be livid if Sherlock was keeping him side-lined on something big. He had a feeling of dread, an Irish-accented hole in his sense of well-being.  _It's probably got something to do with Moriarty._ His disquiet could not help but intrude into his next question. "Are you sure the client is up to all this on his own?"

Sherlock looked offended. "Of course, John. Not all clients are stupid. And this one certainly isn't. That's Mycroft's mistake."

"So, what do you recommend the client do to stop his brother from undermining his credibility?"

There was a silence, then a deep breath. "Two steps. First, find an acceptable alternative to solving cases. Second, make sure that there is no way the client can succumb to his brother's pressure to…to relapse. So, find ways to limit temptation."

"Such as?"

Sherlock thought about it. "It's a question of supply and demand. Stop the suppliers from supplying."

John sniggered. "Oh, so that's easy, is it? Just stop dealers selling drugs. Surprised no one has thought of that before."

Sherlock wasn't deterred. He took a deep breath and then was off. "If the suppliers within a certain radius- say two miles- were to be incentivised to  _not_  supply, then the person demanding it will have to go to further extremes, and that raises the likelihood of getting caught. That's the game changer, and the client will do everything possible to avoid being caught, including curtailing his demand. So, make it very, very hard to find anyone willing to sell to the client alternative forms of stimulation. Dealers are pretty greedy- you'd have to promise to pay double whatever the client was offering, in order to stop them from taking what's being offered as cash. So best to limit the amount of money the client can offer by restricting his cash availability. And to avoid getting ripped off, there would have to be a way of verifying what is claimed- maybe ask a dealer to take a photo of the client trying to buy and present it…to a third party before payment."

This had been rattled off in Sherlock's usual "faster than the speed of thought" deduction flow, and it took John a few moments to unravel it enough to get the gist of what was being said. Once he had, he was intrigued. Sherlock was proposing a method that would make it very hard for him to buy drugs in Central London. "So, restrict cash in the pocket and buy off the suppliers to blacklist this one buyer….our  _client_. Yeah, that could work. It would have to be done by a third party- if the client was to avoid being seen talking to suppliers, that is. Maybe the Homeless Network could be roped into spreading the word to the dealers? We could even get the Met involved. Put it out to their informants, telling every supplier that no matter what the amount of money or incentive offered by the client, a sale would result in a conviction. So, use a carrot and a stick."

"Are you volunteering to be the third party in this, John? Would you be willing to pay off a dealer who came with such evidence?"

Thinking hard about it, John wondered if he could do this for his friend. "If …the  _client_  was willing to uphold the arrangement. And to come to me before heading out to try to find a supplier? Yeah, I'm prepared to help. So, hand over your chip and pin card. I want to know  _why_  though. What's so important that the client has to keep it from his brother?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nice try, John, but it won't work. This is a private exercise. No civilians allowed." But he did pick up his wallet from the mantelpiece and toss it to John, who extracted the bank card. John snorted. "You can't blame me for wanting to know, Sherlock". He checked the cash- twenty five pounds in notes. He tossed it back to his flatmate, who put it in his back pocket, and returned to his chair.

The doctor looked back at the empty chair. "Okay, so you've done your deduction thing and told the client how to make it harder to resort to buying drugs. Maybe the client also needs to cut back on the nicotine patches and actually try to give up smoking properly. Stimulating his neuro-receptors with nicotine will only exacerbate cravings for other things. So, it's a question of having the strength to go cold turkey on the whole lot."

Sherlock looked at John as if he had sprouted horns. He looked at the empty chair, and then back at John again. "The client says that's a big ask."

The doctor leaned forward. "But, if the client is really serious about this, then he has to do it. Shut off the chemical stimulation."

Sherlock sighed. "You don't let me smoke in the flat anyway."

"So, it's no great sacrifice, is it? We'll add cigarettes to the local dealer ban. The Homeless Network can inform the newsagents, the supermarkets, the pubs that the same rules apply. No sales."

"Hmmm." Sherlock sounded a little unconvinced.

But John wasn't prepared to let it go. "What about the flat? Is it clean? I mean, the whole thing fails if the client can ...indulge without being seen or having to go out and buy either drugs or cigarettes. I will remove whatever I can find in the way of your cigarette stashes here in the flat - and you'll tell me where they all are. The same with…other stimulants."

Cigs were one thing, drugs another. He knew that he was pushing Sherlock's limits. Lestrade's "fake drugs bust" on the very first night at the flat had never really been dealt with between the two men. At first, John had taken something of a laissez faire approach. Only once he got to know his flatmate, work with him, and resume practicing medicine, the issue had returned to niggle him fairly regularly. But, he'd not really known how to broach the subject, and there seemed to be no need, until now.

Sherlock was now staring over John's shoulder into the kitchen. For once, John could see conflict on his friend's face. Then a shake of the head, a tentative negative. "You don't understand."

"Then explain it to me. If there was a client in that chair, you wouldn't let him off easily."

"It's a kind of…no, that's not the right word, but I don't know what is." He had begun to rub the thumb against the index finger of his left hand rather vigorously.

"Try." John was patience personified.

"Not a safety net- that's too banal. Think of it as more a continuous test. Like a smoke alarm. It's reassuring to know that it's there, in case you ever need it, but when you don't, then…that's okay. One more day and night that you didn't. It needs to be there as a constant reminder."

"But that doesn't get around the problem. What would?"

"A cut-out of some sort, an extra step, which would make it obvious to the third party, who could decide whether to intervene or not."

John considered it. "If you think I'd ever let you use drugs in the flat, then you will have to re-think what you know about me."

"That is rather the whole point, isn't it?" Sherlock got up and muttered, "Stay there. I'll be back in a minute."

John heard him go down the hall and into his bedroom. He thought about what had just occurred, and realised that in a weird Sherlockian way, a corner had been turned in their relationship. Sherlock was willing to get John involved in stopping any downward slide into drug use. That must imply that he knew his own vulnerabilities. But, on the other hand, John knew that to make such a concession was only likely because Sherlock wanted something even more.  _More than The Work? More than drugs?_  What could Sherlock want more than either of those two things? Whatever it was, Sherlock was adamant that John would not be involved or aware of what it was. That was frustrating, and introduced a whole new degree of worry into the doctor's mind.

He heard Sherlock returning, but did not turn around to watch him come through the kitchen. The tall man came up alongside John's chair and gently placed some things down next to the mug of tea on the small round table. The doctor glanced over and saw that alongside an unopened pack of cigarettes there was a long thin wooden box, inlayed with silver filigree, in a vaguely Islamic design.

"Open it." Sherlock had not sat down, but went over to stand by the window looking out onto Baker Street.

John opened the metal clasp and pulled open the rounded top on its silver hinges. Inside, nestled within a moulding lined with blue velvet, was a slender glass and brass hypodermic syringe, and three needles, each within its own thin glass tube, also sunk into the worn velvet. There was a silver spoon with a very short handle and a piece of blue velvet cord, looped with a slider, and a wooden twist to tighten the tourniquet.

John blew out a breath, and then gave a shaky laugh. "Jeez, Sherlock; leave it to you to have the poshest looking kit I've ever seen. I mean…."

Sherlock interrupted. "Were you expecting some dirty needle on a used plastic syringe? I stopped taking that kind of risk after I was eighteen. Most junkies you have run across aren't using for the reasons I do, John. For me, the ritual is at least half of the experience. Dopamine re-uptake slows as soon as I put eyes on that box. Why not make it as pleasant an experience as possible? With that rig, I know it's clean and I can control the effects. So, take it. Put it somewhere safe where I won't find it. That means somewhere not in the flat, by the way, because I will deduce anywhere you might think of here. Do not, under any circumstances, dispose of it. Even if I were never to use again, I have to still know it exists."

John was still looking at the kit in the box, and trying to get his mind around what it meant, when one of the words Sherlock had just said penetrated. "… _eighteen_? Just when did you start using drugs?"

"Sixteen."

Before John could ask the inevitable question, Sherlock interrupted. "And that is all I intend saying on the subject, John. This is the last time I am prepared to speak of this. And I am only doing so now, because I know what Mycroft is trying to do, and I am going to do my best to stop him from succeeding. So, if it's alright with you, I'd rather focus on the other aspect of the counter-measures strategy."

John shut the box and tried to shove the image of Sherlock using its contents into a deep recess somewhere in the back of his mind. "What's that then?"

Sherlock walked away from the window, and threw himself prone onto the couch, assuming his "I-am-thinking-deeply" pose. Silence fell in the room.

John tried again. "Sherlock you said there were two parts to your strategy. One was to resist temptations, the other was to find something better than case work or drugs to keep you occupied. What is that?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He just shut his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

What John didn't know couldn't hurt him. That was how Sherlock rationalised it. No one, apart from him, knew all the pieces. He knew it would be harder for him, not having John to talk to, but it was safer that way. Elizabeth Ffoukes was the only one he had told about his being the Viking. And she would keep that away from everyone, lest the idea of collaborating with a known criminal be used against her or MI6's reputation. Yet, as he closed his eyes and opened the door into his Mind Palace, he realised that once again John's naïve questions had set off a new line of thought, one that Sherlock had not considered before. The doctor had said, "…think of it as a case."

Not exactly a case that needed to be solved, more a case that needed to be built. Instead of trying to solve the problem of Moriarty, of trying to plan what happened next, how to react to what he anticipated about the Irishman's behaviour, he needed to put himself in the centre- and he needed to accelerate the timetable.  _Stop reacting to someone else's crimes. Start planning some of your own._

It was good advice. John would never know how much he had helped, because Sherlock would never be able to tell him. John's moral compass would…have difficulties accommodating Sherlock's sliding scale of ethics. If the ends were justified, the means were irrelevant. If it took crimes of a lesser order to capture someone able to commit just about any crime anywhere without fear of being caught, then that was…acceptable in Sherlock's mind. He thought of it as 'pump priming,' remembering the lessons that the head gardener had taught him about how to get a petrol water pump going.

"Why do you need to fill it with water, before it can suck up water?" His twelve year old self was fascinated with the physics of water pressure.

The elderly man smiled. "Because there are times when you have to give it what it wants, so it will want more."

 _Just another kind of addiction_. Sherlock needed to devote as much attention to planning the crimes of Lars Sigursson as he would to solving a case. It was not a role he was used to, but it was a role that had an amount of perverse attraction to it. Like swapping from his drug of choice to something new, a little experimentation was warranted. He needed to develop the Norwegian's reputation more, push him into the limelight a little, attract attention from other people in the Irishman's network. And he was done waiting. Mycroft would win if he could prolong the whole process until Sherlock's patience cracked.

He had reason to be pleased with the first phase- making Moriarty appear vulnerable had already happened as planned. Sigursson was busy making sure that the network knew about the desert sojourn of their leader, and that the UK was behind it. He enjoyed planting little seeds of doubt in their minds about just how the British intelligence services had got away with it- the fabled contingency plans had not worked- crime after crime was unpicked, thwarted as it took place, with the perpetrators hauled off to jail. He had to do it oh so very carefully. It had to appear the earnest wishes of a man who wanted Moriarty to succeed. So, lessons in 'damning with faint praise' were applied. Whatever Moriarty might argue about his 'victory', just a few words in a few ears could undermine that.

He found himself channelling his brother's approach to such exercises. As much as he wanted to keep Mycroft out of things, it was that particular voice that he most often found in his Mind Palace when thinking about the Moriarty campaign. The 2.0 version of the Mind Palace was just  _so_  better designed for this sort of work. No longer confined to linear programmed relationships, he could access any part of the multiple corelet components, sifting through all the scenarios to spot the ideal moment to introduce yet another element of complexity.  _Wheels within wheels._  No wonder he'd abandoned the crude hard disk filing system of his old Mind Palace. No longer confined to random access memory, his new access code had voices, attached to physical bodies. Like avatars, his search methods were specialists. Molly was for anything pathological; his brother's stentorian tones and 'oh-so-superior' posture were used to access anything strategic, political or logical. Voice, gesture, even clothing of the avatar- played a part in cataloguing and then recovering data when he needed it. Anderson's nasal voice and weedy physique played a part, when something forensic was needed. Sherlock reserved John and Lestrade's avatars for…other issues.  _Checks and balances_. Sometimes Sherlock recognised his need for such brakes on his usual full-tilt behaviour.

His John avatar was now sitting in the tweed chair, looking at the empty client's seat. "What would you advise him to do, Sherlock?" The answer had come to him in a flash, but he'd kept it to himself.  _No amount of my arguing with Mycroft will change anything; but if I can convince Elizabeth that his meddling is jeopardising the whole mission, then she might be able to get around him._ He was learning the art of coalition building. For someone who preferred working on his own or with John, Sherlock now needed to manipulate others to get his problems solved. He doubted Elizabeth Ffoukes could actually thwart Mycroft's orders to the Met, but she might be a good source for cases of her own.  _Just applying some of your own tactics against you, brother mine._

While he lay silent and somnolent on the sofa, his Mind Palace was resonating with the sound of contending voices, considering what was best to do next. John's avatar kept arguing with him. "Is this really necessary? Why won't you tell me what's going on?"

_Because I can't. Because I mustn't involve you. It is too risky. You need to survive this. That's the whole point. I'm expendable, you're not. I've known that since the moment he wrapped you in semtex. There is no alternative, John, if you are to live through this._

But, it was times like these when John's contribution was so useful that Sherlock found it hard. His ability to provoke the best, the unexpected, out of Sherlock was something that he had come to rely on. He knew that he was better for having John there. That fact annoyed him almost as much as it surprised him.

 _Sentiment_. He had to put more distance between them. John would be puzzled, as he had been today. Giving him something regarding drugs was important- keep him thinking that he was performing a useful role, whilst all the while putting more and more distance between them. Why that should cause him distress was something…odd. Sherlock shifted on the sofa. He had to stay focused. Because he couldn't talk to the real John, he was going to have to rely on the one in his head more.

The whole process passed the time, helped him to miss the case work a little less. The adrenaline rush of plotting against Moriarty kept his dopamine levels up for a while, and pushed off the allure of other temptations.

oOo

Later that afternoon, John left for his shift at the clinic. As soon as the front door was closed, Sherlock was in motion. He got up from the sofa and padded into his bedroom, changing out of the usual button-down shirt and smart trousers, and into a non-descript pair of dark jeans and a navy hoodie. Undercover work needed some anonymity, if he was to avoid being picked up by Mycroft's CCTV surveillance. He worked some hair gel into the dark curls, and pulled his hair straight back from his forehead. A baseball cap and a pair of tinted glasses finished the disguise. He went into the hall landing, and stopped at the third step up towards John's bedroom- the squeaky one. A careful tap at one end of the overhang on the right hand side and the riser shifted a tiny bit, allowing Sherlock to slip the bent hanger into the space, twist until the metal hook was against the wood and pull. With a squeak, the board shifted out, allowing him to reach his fingers in and extract a small package.

He wondered what John would make of it. The hiding place was not a drugs stash, but rather a plastic wrapped burn phone. Prepaid, used only twice, it came on as he woke it up.  _A different kind of fix, John- far more potent than cocaine_. He recalled last text sent, and typed in a new message.

**14.12pm urgent meet 3pm Carluccio Waterloo LS**

He waited for the reply. Three minutes later it came.

**14.15pm can make 4.15pm same place**

He smirked.  _Busy lady._  Still, not everyone had the DG of MI6 at their beck and call. He was glad that Lars Sigursson did.

Before the appointed hour, he made his way out of the flat, using his latest "get-out-of-Baker-Street-without-Mycroft-knowing" route. He altered it regularly, just in case. He decided against the technique of going out through Mrs Hudson's basement into the alleyway between 221 and Mrs. Turner's bins. This time it was onto the roof, which he swept regularly for cameras and bugs. To be doubly sure, he moved six properties along at roof top level before dropping down and over a back wooden fence into an alleyway behind the drycleaners on the corner. Within seconds, he was walking alongside another young man on the pavement, just close enough for CCTV technicians to mistake them as a pair, yet far enough away not to provoke the casually dressed tourist into realising he was even there.

He was lucky that Mycroft was such a slothful creature. None of his men had anywhere near the capacity of the Holmes brothers to predict such a journey, nor to spot it when it occurred on camera. Sherlock could hide in plain sight, his encyclopaedic knowledge of CCTV allowed him to duck his head at just the right moments to escape facial recognition software. If his brother could have been bothered to view the recordings himself, Sherlock knew that Mycroft would be able to detect his presence just from his body language and the way he moved. His brother knew him too well. For years, Mycroft had honed his surveillance skills in watching his brother.  _Thank God you're too important for all that now._

So, a half hour before the appointed hour, Sherlock was already ensconced on a bar stool at the counter between the deli and the restaurant of Carluccio's, on the balcony level of Waterloo station. He indulged himself by ordering a plate of  _Pasta alla Puttanesca_ , whole wheat penne in a rich sauce of tomato, black olive and anchovy, and a bottle of Italian water; "senza gaz, per favour" he specified in a perfect Tuscan accent. He enjoyed eavesdropping on the banter between the Italian waiter- a native of Naples by his accent- as he tried to chat up another diner, a dark haired brunette from Milan.

At precisely 4.15, the seat to his left was occupied by a late middle-aged woman with the raven black hair of her youth now salted with a dash of white. In faultless, but textbook unaccented Italian, she ordered an espresso for herself and for him.

"Good afternoon, Elizabeth." He now wore the guise of his Norwegian accented English, the faint lisp loitering in the background.

"Mister Sigursson. How can I be of assistance?"

"We have a mutual acquaintance who is not obeying the rules. He's attempting to choke off all police work and interfering in private client cases, too- enough to alter the pattern so that other eyes will soon be aware if they are not already so. This has to be stopped, for the good of the mission. The target needs to see a consulting detective functioning at full capacity. In fact, for the benefit of the plan, you need to personally source a few high profile cases- the sort that will attract the target's attention. We want a bit of provocation now. So, find me a big one within the next week to ten days, and then a couple more for each week thereafter. I need high profile, press publicity. It's important."

Their coffees arrived. While she sipped at hers, he did the Italian thing- added two packets of sugar, stirred vigorously, and then took it all back in a single gulp of scalding sweet black liquid, followed by a chaser of half a glass of cold water.

She was using the mirror on the far wall behind the coffee machinery to watch the traffic on the balcony outside the restaurant. "You should know that our mutual friend was rattled by having to conduct that interrogation. He's hiding it well, but I can tell. Didn't like it one little bit."

"I can imagine. He is sloth personified. Getting off his fat bum and actually doing some  _real_  work must have been annoying." Sherlock did nothing to hide his amusement at his brother's discomfort.

"Why do you two get along so badly?" Elizabeth sipped slowly at her espresso. "I mean, if the two of you ever  _did_  manage to get together on something, you'd be pretty unbeatable."

"Because he never will  _get together_. Something about him says 'no' every time the idea is suggested. He is congenitally incapable of not being in control."

"As much as you are congenitally incapable of being controlled?"

"Careful what you wish for, Elizabeth. You cannot get involved, or seek to control- that would involve culpability for what is going to happen. That's not how this is going to work. You have to have deniability."

She sighed. "I know. But I can't help but be curious. Our surveillance tracked the target's departure from the Sahara to…"

He cut her off. "Don't bother. My sources inside the network are far superior to yours. I know exactly where he is and what he is plotting next. We have no more than a month before he starts a campaign of 'in your face' high profile crimes designed to rub British noses up the wrong way. Before then, you need to supply me with at least three cases that will attract a lot of publicity- ideally, three cases that have the stink of an Irishman's involvement in them. Think of it as a gauntlet to be thrown."

She was looking at him now from the side. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see the look of concern on her face. "You're provoking a fire-breathing dragon; please be careful. Don't get burned."

He smirked. "Sentiment, Elizabeth? You can't afford it. Just remember, I'm not doing this for you. Queen and country is not my motivation. "

She tipped the last dregs of the espresso in and sighed. "You'll get your cases, Give me ten days." She put a tenner down on the counter and walked out.


	4. Chapter 4

Before things got better, they got worse. Elizabeth needed ten days. Ten more days of  _nothing_. There was only so much Mind Palace work that Sherlock could do, while waiting for Elizabeth to deliver. As no cases came forward from the Met, he had to accept that her ability to override his brother was limited. And the cases on John's blog went from the ridiculous to the absurd- lost dogs and obvious marital infidelities filled the inbox, taunting him with his predicament.

To stay sane, Sherlock was reduced to working old historical cases. For a whole day he researched the background to the mysterious death of Captain 'Black Peter' Carey in 1895. The 'Case of the Woodsman's Lee', as it was called back then, had been notorious. Sherlock was convinced that the crime was in fact a serious miscarriage of justice.

John was bemused at the development.  _At least he's talking again._ Over his supper of fish and chips (politely declined by his flatmate), he couldn't resist asking the obvious question. "I've heard of cold cases, Sherlock, but this has to be from the deep freeze. Why the sudden interest in ancient history?"

Sherlock glowered. "Necessity is the mother of invention, John. If I am barred by a stupid prat in a three piece suit from handling current cases, there are plenty of cases in the past that are worthy of study. In many respects, it just hones my observational skills. The forensic evidence is primitive and the crime scenes cannot be visited. No one can be interviewed. You might think it a hopeless exercise, but in fact cases like these just take more thoughtful analysis and deduction. Even the tiniest clue can be crucial. Think of it as a form of mental gymnastics."

John looked sceptical, "or a lost cause?"

That earned him a glower from Sherlock. He stole a chip from John's plate and popped it into his mouth. "The alternatives are worse, so I expect you to be a bit more supportive of the idea."

"Want some of your own?" John offered him some of the fish, as well. The three As of agitation, anxiety and annoyance meant his flatmate's usual abstemious nature was now positively ascetic.

Sherlock shook his head, but stole another chip. John decided that playing along was the best course. Sherlock had been looking increasingly wild eyed and twitchy- the nicotine withdrawal must be bothering him. "So, what happened to this mariner?"

"He was found in his hut in the woods, with a harpoon stabbed right through him. He was pinned to the wall..." Sherlock pointed to the glass case on the mantelpiece, where half a dozen exotic winged insects were pinned to the white card background. "…like one of those moths. It was his own harpoon- a huge thing used for whaling, one of three he had brought with him from his ship,  _The Sea Unicorn_. The killer was presumed to have taken it down from the wall of the hut where it had hung ever since Captain Carey gave up his seafaring days. Black Peter was a big man, a notorious drunkard and a bully. Few mourned his passing, but the papers described the crime scene with great glee."

"Why wasn't it solved back then?" The case sounded bloody enough to appeal to the sensational Victorian press; he was surprised not to have heard more about it.

"It  _was_ , or so they assumed. The police arrested someone- John Neligan, the son of a failed banker, because stolen securities were involved in the case. The evidence was circumstantial at best- a tobacco pouch with a set of initials, a blood-stained ledger, but motive was proven, so the jury convicted him and Neligan was hanged*. Shame on his defence lawyer- even the most incompetent should have been able to get him off."

"Why?" John was surprised at the vehemence of Sherlock's assessment. "You've managed to figure out who really did it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I know that Neligan didn't do it, and I have an appointment tomorrow morning to identify just who did from my list of suspects."

John tried to understand how that would be possible. He sniggered, "What, a line-up of skeletons? How on earth can you deduce something about people who've been dead for over a century?"

Sherlock gave him an odd look. "I'm borrowing a whaling harpoon and have a date with a pig carcass at Smithfield, early tomorrow morning." That earned him an equally odd look from John in return.

When John got up the next morning Sherlock was gone. The doctor was on an afternoon and early evening shift at the clinic, so he was happy to read the paper and enjoy a leisurely start in some peace and quiet. By telling him in advance where he was going, Sherlock was abiding by the rules of the new 'arrangement.' Smithfield was inside the "temptation exclusion zone" where John and the Homeless network had put in place the necessary restraint of suppliers. A photo of Sherlock had been shown to the various tempters and the message made clear. So far, no one had arrived at the flat to claim he'd tried to buy anything.  _Early days yet._  John hoped this trip on his own would prove to be a good enough diversion.

oOo

Sherlock collected the harpoon from the Victoria & Albert Museum at 5.30 am. Four hours before the museum opened and before anyone else was at work to notice, a man who owed him a favour met him at the back door and handed it over. The short balding man in a V&A security uniform looked a little furtively around the pre-dawn gloom, as if worried about being seen.

"You won't break it, will you? I need to return it to the storage room undamaged, or I'll get in trouble."

Sherlock looked at the weapon- a stout pole of oak more than three inches in diameter and over a meter and a half long. Roped along its length and with a meter long metal attachment lashed to the pole and barbed at the tip, it looked more than capable of going into a solid wooden wall; the harpoon was an impressive piece of deadly weapon.

He smirked. "I don't think it's in danger of breaking, Mister Samuels. I'm more interested in the kind of mayhem it can inflict."

"Well, just return it after midnight tonight in working order. Whatever you do to it, clean it up. Not that anyone other than a curator is going to notice. They don't put these beauties on display."

Sherlock looked surprised. "Why ever not? I would have thought a harpoon would attract a lot of attention."

Samuels snorted. "Wouldn't do to frighten the little kiddies, wouldn't it? These days, whales are our friends, and it's politically incorrect to remind anyone that they were once hunted to the edge of extinction. So, they keep these locked away."

Sherlock took possession. "I will treat the harpoon with the respect it is due, and hand it back to you here after midnight." He tucked the weapon under his arm and headed off down Exhibition Road, looking for a cab to take him to Smithfield Market.

It wasn't easy getting a taxi, especially at this hour of the morning. Several started to pull over to the kerb where he was signalling, only to drive off after seeing the harpoon. Eventually, one stopped long enough to ask, "What the flipping heck is that for, Ahab?"

Sherlock looked puzzled at the comment, but decided to improvise. "It's a theatre prop. And I need to get it to Smithfield. It will have to go out the window- too long to fit in the back."

The cabbie laughed. "Well, I'm game if you are- but just point it up to the sky or we'll end up skewering some poor cycle courier who fancies overtaking me."

Off they went eastwards on the Cromwell Road, around Hyde park Corner and then up the Mall to the Strand and Fleet Street. As the cab went up Giltspur Street past St Bartholomew's hospital, Sherlock smirked. It had always amused him that the pathology department was less than 400 meters from the largest London meat trade market, with literally dozens of wholesale butchers carving up animal cadavers to serve the hungry hordes of Londoners. He asked the cab to stop on West Smithfield, just before it went one way, and walked the remaining 200 feet, carrying the harpoon. Past East Poultry Avenue and then left into the Grand Avenue- a posh name for what was essentially the tradesman's entrance to the meatpacking industry. At this hour of the morning, it was in full swing, with trolleys of raw carcasses being moved by dozens of butchers, filling the backs of a steady stream of white vans, double-parked along the road. The gullies at the edge of the street ran red with blood and melted ice. Sherlock pushed apart the long plastic sheets that blocked off the trade stalls from the car traffic, and carried on dodging the various workers, some of whom stared at him and his extraordinary weapon.

At the fourth stall along, Sherlock went in and met Steve Daley, a big bluff Eastender, standing a bit nervously by the trade counter. Sherlock nodded as the man eyed the harpoon. He cut off any question by getting his own in first; "Got it ready?"

The burly man nodded, and took the consulting detective deeper into the meat processing area. Various butchers were at work carving up carcasses along a long metal table; other workers were packing the various cuts into boxes. Against the back wall were a row of meat locker doors. Daley took Sherlock past them into another smaller room, where chains were slung from metal tracks in the ceiling.

"I done what you asked for, Mister Holmes. The wood is up agin that wall and the pig is hangin' up three foot off t'ground. It's a…a bit weird to hang it up that way around; no butcher ever does that, put the head up. Won't bleed out properly that way."

"I know. That's the whole point, Daley. How much did it weigh?"

"96 kilos."

Sherlock surveyed the scene. The pig was hooked through the throat and chained with its snout pointing to the ceiling. There was less than fifteen inches between it and the wooden panel behind it. He approached the carcass and sniffed. "Mustn't be too cold." He took his hand and laid it on the carcass. It was just cooler than room temperature. "When was it killed?"

"I did it myself two hours ago – electric shock, like you asked. Not been blooded or nothing."

Sherlock smiled, "Good, it has to be fresh. I need to understand  _everything_."

Daley looked at the harpoon, more than a little confused. "What'cha gonna do with that, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I do mind. It's for a case. More serious than the one I got you out of two years ago, so I'd appreciate some privacy now." He waited until the butcher left, and shut the wooden door behind him. Sherlock tested the weight of the carcass by giving it a push on the chain. It barely moved. He'd asked for one just shy of 100 kilos, because the historical records had described Black Peter as a great bear of a man, 'over fifteen stone of muscle'. He pulled out a metal tape measure and used it to find out the length of the carcass. Minus the legs and head, it came to 24 inches.  _Close enough._ He knew that an average tall man's torso would be over 20 inches in length. He turned the carcass on its chain so that the pig's underbelly was facing forward.

Sherlock had read extensive newspaper coverage of the state of Captain Carey's body when it was found.  _The room was a droning harmonium of blow flies and bluebottles, and the floor and walls were like a slaughter-house_  was how the local reporter described it.  _A single blow with the harpoon had gone straight through his belly and pinned the man to the wooden wall behind him_.

That told him roughly where he needed to strike- not too high up the rib cage that the bone would present an impenetrable barrier. Slightly to the left, so it didn't hit the spine. He took another quick look at his phone and the image from the butcher's app on swine anatomy. He took out of his pocket a fat black magic marker and drew on the carcass's skin the approximate target area. Then he took off his Belstaff, folded it carefully and slipped it into the black plastic bag, sealing it carefully.

Sherlock picked up the harpoon, strode half a dozen paces to the far wall of the room, turned and charged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: * As my Sherlock exists in the 21st century, rather than the Victorian era when Conan Doyle wrote the original "Black Peter" story, there was no one to save Neligan from the gallows. Forgive my updating of this...but it does explain the opening scenes of Hounds.

**Author's Note:**

> * in my story Collateral Damage **in CrossFire


End file.
